


you and me (and our teenage delinquent)

by menocchio



Series: downtown man [3]
Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Established Relationship, Family Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menocchio/pseuds/menocchio
Summary: It's one thing to get into a relationship, and another to be in a relationship while kinda co-parenting an angry, withdrawn kid with a chip on his shoulder the size of California.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Series: downtown man [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026910
Comments: 112
Kudos: 328





	1. A Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The third and final part to this series.

“I've got some big news,” said Daniel, one weekend sometime in the future. He sat forward with elbows on his knees and met his children's eyes. He smiled. “We found a place down in Reseda—”

“ _Reseda_ ,” said Anthony, like it was Somalia or something.

“—so Johnny can still be close to help out Miguel.”

Sam, sitting curled up in the armchair with her arms tightly crossed over her middle, flicked a wary look to Johnny and said nothing.

“It's going to be great, guys. Both of you will still have your own room, and there'll be much more space for everyone.” He was still trying to slow pitch this thing, but Johnny was pretty sure neither kid was buying it.

“Everyone?” repeated Sam, because she was sharp like her dad, and just as suspicious.

Johnny cleared his throat, deciding to just get this over with. “Robby's getting out soon. He'll be living with us.”

Anthony's jaw dropped. “You want us to live with a _criminal_?”

“Now, hang on,” started Daniel.

Johnny said, “Jesus. It was juvie, not the federal pen.”

“It wasn't enough you turned our dad gay?” he said, accusing. “Now you're stealing him for your own kid?”

“Yeah, yeah, that's right. I turned your dad gay. That's exactly how this works,” he said. “I thought your generation was supposed be chill with this shit.”

Daniel put his hands up between them, looking five seconds from losing his cool. “Okay, Johnny? Don't swear at my kid? And Anthony, I'm _not_ gay, I loved your mom very much. And, you know, maybe I don't believe in, in labels – ”

“Ugh, whatever,” said Anthony, getting up and walking out of the room, hands already reaching into his pocket for his Nintendo.

Sam, meanwhile, glared at Daniel with wet eyes. “After what he did to Miguel, and now we're what, supposed to play one big, happy family with him? I cannot _believe_ you.” And then she stormed out of the apartment.

“Sam,” called Daniel, fruitlessly.

Johnny kicked his feet up onto the table and resumed drinking his coffee. Daniel slid him a look.

“This seems like a less than illustrious start.”

He shrugged. “My kid has hated me off and on for years. You get used to it.”  
  


* * *

  
“You nervous?” asked Daniel, adjusting the earpiece. He looked across the floor of the dealership and nodded and waved at two customers he recognized from earlier that week. Back for a second test drive of the Audi; likely to hem and haw their way to a price cut of a couple hundred bucks.

In his ear, Johnny said, “Of course I'm not nervous.”

He let himself into his office and closed the door. “It would be perfectly normal to be nervous, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” came the short reply. A familiar sound in the background: the fridge doors shutting? “But I'm not.”

Daniel set his bag down on his desk. “Johnny, maybe don't show up to the juvenile detention center with beer on your breath.”

“I'm not. I mean, I won't.”

“Mm.” An odd silence fell over the phone line. Daniel tipped his head back and gazed out the window at the tender new spring leaves dancing in the wind. He said finally, “Did you put your phone on mute so you could open the can?” More silence, where there should've been an annoyed denial. “And now you can't figure out which button to press to unmute the phone.”

He should've taken a half day and picked up Robby himself. He knew it. Johnny had insisted on being the one and, not wanting to step on any toes and also understanding the need for Johnny to be there for Robby, Daniel had agreed. But he didn't want to be one of those bystanders who do nothing as something terrible happens right in front of him. If he could stop Johnny from preemptively ruining things with his son, shouldn't he?

Sound came back on the line and Johnny said, “I hate this fucking phone, and I don't understand why I couldn't keep using my old one.”

“As I recall it going, you wanted a family plan with Robby but didn't understand why that plan needed to include data—”

“I've had car loans that cost less—”

“So I added you to mine, which is a different carrier, which requires a different phone,” finished Daniel. There was a knock on the door behind him, and he turned around to find Amanda waiting in the doorway, eyebrows raised. He made a slight face at her. “Look, I gotta go, but – stick to one, please. And text me when you get out there.”

They both hung up; unceremonious, because goodbyes felt weird and anything else was out of the question.

“Stick to one,” repeated Amanda. “Wow. Does that mean what I think it does?”

“He's nervous,” said Daniel.

“It's eight o'clock in the morning.”

He didn't want to talk about this. He leaned against the front of his desk and crossed his ankles, like they were having a friendly chat. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about?”

Amanda folded her arms and put on her diplomatic face, the one she used with customers who made off-color jokes but had credit scores above 750. She reached up and tugged an earring.

Daniel braced himself.

“Sam's not coming this Friday.”

He let his head drop to his chest and let out a breath. Then he noticed his socks didn't match: a slate gray with a chocolate brown, which was what happened when Johnny sorted the laundry, and continued happening when Johnny distracted him first thing in the morning while he was supposed to be getting dressed.

“She said she has a, quote, _thing_. With Moon,” she continued, apologetic.

He raised his head and met her eyes. “She's gotta come around some time. She can't just avoid my place forever and ever.”

“I know,” said Amanda, “and she knows. Just – give her time.”

“Right,” he said, not a little bitterly. “Anthony still coming, or have both my children decided they hate me?”

“Oh, Anthony's coming. You're taking him, that's non-negotiable.”  
  


* * *

  
The only parking near the center was six blocks away, which was bullshit, and it charged $15 an hour, which was also bullshit, and then the man at the front desk kept him waiting twenty minutes past the scheduled pick-up time, and it was all such _bullshit_.

Johnny set the plastic bag of clothing for Robby down on the chair beside him in the waiting room and tried not to be too obvious about practicing his breathing.

He didn't like this building. He didn't like the bland looks on the employees' faces, the smell of the floor cleaner. He didn't like the lights and the way the shape of the room hid the fact that just behind all the boring, normal-looking front offices were a bunch of kids in jail.

He didn't like that his son had been one of them, until this morning.

His knee bounced restlessly. He kneaded the muscle just below his left thumb like Daniel sometimes did for him at night when it was fucked up; it didn't work nearly so well when Johnny did it, go figure.

He thought: this was a mistake.

He should've let Daniel do this. He'd be less likely to lose his cool before Robby even showed up, and he'd know the right things to say, probably. Robby has historically responded to Daniel better – both before his spell in juvie and during, the handful of times Johnny and Daniel did joint visits. Daniel always seemed to understand him so easily, in ways Johnny just... didn't.

Sure, Daniel didn't have eighteen years of fuck ups and failures staring back at him with hard eyes under a flopping fringe of hair; he didn't have to remember it every time; didn't have to face atoning for it forever. The couple times Daniel messed up with Robby, the kid seemed to forgive him readily enough. And Johnny got that, even. It was probably easier with Daniel for him, same way everything was always harder for Johnny when it was Robby.

And, right on the tail of that thought, a buzzer sounded deep down the hall. The man at the front desk looked up and said to him, “Here for Robby Keene?”

Johnny made his hands stop shaking by clenching them into fists and releasing them just as quickly. He swallowed and stood and started forward, and then had to double back to grab the bag of clothing.

He should've had that third beer, he thought.

Another buzzer sounded, the door to the right of the front desk opened, and out stepped his son.


	2. TEN

(Robby thinks: my flake of a dad has finally lost it; he's playing house with his mortal enemy, a guy who decided I wasn't worth the trouble at least twice before. Big happy fucking family.)  
  


* * *

  
Robby was quiet in the car. Whenever Johnny glanced at him, he was looking out the passenger window, expression blank.

The clothes Johnny had brought for him so he wouldn't have to wear his intake clothing was from the stash Robby had left behind at Daniel's old house; they were almost a year and a half old, and the shirt was a little too small around his shoulders and arms. Johnny remembered being his age and how it seemed like he couldn't possibly eat enough to keep up. Even after he stopped getting taller, he still continued filling out.

Fucking say something, he thought. Anything.

“Going to be weird,” he said, preemptively wincing out the windshield at the stupid, forced casual sound of his own voice. “Having to fight you for the bathroom in the morning.”

Maybe don't say _that_. Way to remind him that you've never lived together before. And the kid just got out of juvie, he was used to communal bathrooms, for fuck's sake. Their bathroom was going to be paradise, even when Sam and Anthony were visiting.

“I'm more of a shower-at-night person,” is all Robby said.

“Okay, well. You can fight Daniel for it then.”

Was it bad to mention Daniel's shower habits? Did that veer into what Aisha would term _TMI_? But wouldn't it be weirder if he didn't know – he lived with the guy. And it's not like they were hiding the particulars of why. Maybe he was overthinking this.

“Dad?” said Robby. He shifted in his seat and threw him an uncertain glance, his mother's hazel eyes: confused. “Light's green.”

After all these years, he still felt the same mix of guilt and surprised pleasure when Robby called him Dad. That word. He didn't think he'd ever get used to it; it wasn't like he ever called anyone by it himself. _Dad_ was a word from TV commercials trying to sell power tools and barbecues. Johnny never once looked at those smiling photogenic dads and felt any sort of recognition, not as a son and certainly not as a man.

He's never tried putting it into words, because he didn't think anyone would quite understand, but – sometimes it amazed him to the point of being overwhelming, that his son existed at all. For the rest of Johnny's life, there would only be one person in the world who might call him Dad. Just the one. Just Robby.

If Johnny didn't fuck it up again.

They drove on. He spied an In-N-Out two blocks up and mentally apologized to Daniel's big dinner plans. “You want to grab a burger or something? First meal as a free man again always tastes the best.”

“Suppose you'd know,” said Robby, and then he winced like he regretted it. He turned his head and muttered into the window, “Sorry.”

“S'alright,” he said easily, hitting his indicator. “I do know. That's why I know you're not gonna regret getting a quad quad with a side of fries and a shake.”  
  


* * *

  
He and Daniel had this thing they did where Daniel texted him approximately a million times a day and occasionally Johnny replied with something like _okay_ or _no_ depending on the topic. The invention of texting must've been the greatest day of Daniel's life, Johnny figured; no longer would time or distance stand in the way of him sharing his opinions and commands with the world.

 _Did you guys make it back okay? Everything all right? Did you get him something eat?_ texted Daniel in quick succession as they were walking up the steps of front porch.

Johnny texted back the little picture of a fist. He despised emojis in general, but the fist was an exception.

But apparently the fist was not sufficiently reassuring, because his phone immediately lit up again. _I'm going to knock off early and come home._

And yeah, some pathetic part of Johnny wanted to let that happen, anything to ease the awkwardness he could feel pressing in from behind like a cold wind, but since he _wasn't_ a pussy—

 _no were good_ , he replied and slid the phone back into his pocket to ignore again. He didn't want Daniel getting used to him replying immediately, because then he'd come to expect it. Better to let the messages pile up a bit. They were funnier that way, anyway.

The new place was a four-bedroom craftsman deal that Daniel called _modest_ when he was describing it to his mother on the phone and was bigger than any place Johnny had lived in since he moved out of Sid's when he was nineteen. Johnny unlocked the door and glanced back at Robby to check what he thought. Kid had lived at Daniel's old place, after all. Maybe he was expecting something more along those lines.

Robby had his head tipped back, looking at the dormer windows. His eyes flicked down when he sensed Johnny was looking and he said, “This is kinda weird.”

It really fucking was. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It's like. A normal person's house.”

Johnny relaxed. “Right?” He let them in, tossing the keys over the dumb little tray Daniel kept by the door so they landed on the counter. The first floor had an open floorplan, no walls between the kitchen and living room. In some strange ways, the house was like a polished mirror version of Johnny's old apartment.

He waved at the living room, which was still very much a work in progress. “We're still... you know. Moving in. We wanted to wait for you.”

“Wait for me?” asked Robby, stopping on the edge of the room and looking around at all the boxes. “Why?”

“I don't know, get your opinion on.” What was it, what had he said. “Furniture arrangements?” How had this sounded less gay when Daniel said it. “Maybe he has a new karate lesson in mind – learn to flip a guy by shoving a sofa around or something.”

Robby actually turned full-body in place to look at Johnny. The only sign of his tension was in the white-knuckled grip he had on the shoulder strap of his backpack. He said flatly, “I don't do karate anymore.”

“No,” said Johnny, “I know—” even though he hadn't.

“So if you guys thought, like, with me being here—”

“It was a joke, that's all.”

“Just,” said Robby, letting out a subtle breath, “wanted to be clear.”

He put up his hands. “It's okay, no problem.”

They stared at each other.

“I think I'm gonna grab a beer,” said Johnny, taking half a step back.

“Can I have one?”

Johnny slowed and paused where the carpet of the living room met the wood flooring of the kitchen. Robby had asked it casually enough, and it was his first night out. And it's not like Johnny hadn't let Miguel have a drink every once in a while. This was something fathers and sons did all the time, right? When the son got old enough, they cracked open a couple of cold ones together? Robby was eighteen, and he'd had a rough time of it.

Dozens of reasons to do it, and only the instinctive knowledge that Daniel would disapprove to weigh against them.

“Sure,” he said. “You want an IPA from Monkish or one of my Coors?” And when Robby hesitated, he said, “That was trick question. First beer we share isn't going to be a goddamn craft beer.”  
  


* * *

  
Daniel arrived home later than he'd intended, the result of a phone call with their commercial insurance agent that dragged on longer than any reasonable human being could have expected or desired. He'd planned on making a special meal for Robby's first night, but he knew it was too late now. Take-out, he supposed. They could get take-out, and it would still be a treat.

The music could be heard before he even pulled into the garage. Daniel parked and sat there for a few seconds, brow wrinkled as he listened to the frenetic, hard sound pounding through the walls.

This – was not what he expected. Awkward silence was the first bet he made with himself. The runner-up being Robby having left the house entirely by now.

He climbed out of his car and went to the connecting door to the house. Opening it was a bit like being punched in the face. And then walking into that same fist over and over as he found his way to the living room.

The two had unpacked the stereo system and speakers, aided by – Daniel scoped out the coffee table, fireplace mantle, and kitchen counter – at least nine beers.

Johnny was sitting in an armchair, bemusedly watching his son thrash his head to the music. He caught sight of Daniel and shouted, “Do you know what this is?”

“It's – Adrenalin OD,” he said blankly. He remembered being fifteen and sneaking into The Pipeline to see them. He didn't think either of them heard him over the music though.

“My son's a _punk_.” Johnny sounded oddly delighted, which was the only thing stopping Daniel from freaking out, because Robby was a _drunk_ punk.

Dressed in normal clothing again, it was easy to see the boy was somehow both broader and thinner than he'd been when he first went into juvie. He stopped banging his head long enough to notice Daniel's presence and his eyes lit up. He raised his beer and said, completely inaudible under the sound of Paul Richard's fast-paced shouting:

“Hey, Mr. LaRusso!”

And Daniel smiled, because there really wasn't anything else he could do at that point.  
  


* * *

  
A couple hours later, after he'd got the music turned down and the take-out ordered and had supervised the eating of said take-out while also nudging water across the table to the increasingly drowsy teenager – later, Daniel shut their bedroom door, turned around, and said:

“What the fuck, Johnny?”

The other man sank down on the edge of the bed and pressed his hands over his face tiredly. “I know, okay?”

“Do you? Because the hammered teenager a floor away would suggest otherwise.” Daniel shook his head and gave a short laugh. He turned away and started unbuttoning his shirt. He made it two buttons before he had to turn back and say, “I mean, what were you thinking? Getting him drunk his first night out?”

Johnny's hands dropped, and he stared at the floor. “He asked for a beer, and he just seemed so – I couldn't really think of a good reason not to, I mean. It was just one beer. But then he seemed to finally _relax_. And we were talking—”

“Couldn't think a good reason not to,” he repeated. “Just one beer. Do you hear yourself? You can't medicate your child into behaving for you, this isn't the fucking sixties, for god's sake.”

Johnny didn't say anything, just sat there continuing to look utterly defeated. Daniel had another good ten minutes of haranguing still in him, but he pulled it back with effort. What good would it do, at this point. He was tired, they were both tired. This night was always going to be strange.

He finished with his shirt and hung it up on the dry cleaning hanger and went to go take a long shower before he slipped up and said something unforgivable, like _do you want him to turn out like you?_

There's no way they weren't both already thinking it. _  
  
_

* * *

  
When he got back, Johnny was down to his boxers and shirt and in bed, though Daniel could tell by the line of his shoulders that he wasn't asleep.

Daniel slipped between the sheets without bothering with pajamas and molded himself against the other man's back. His arm came up to circle Johnny's middle, and it was insane how good and comfortable this still felt, the solidity of him. Even with the tension of the night, he felt something loosen inside as he pressed close to his warm bulk.

He set his mouth against the top knob of his spine and murmured, “Tomorrow will be better.”

“Tomorrow, he'll be hungover,” corrected Johnny dully. “And if he's anything like Shannon, he won't be pleasant.”

“Okay, so tomorrow night will be better,” said Daniel, because that was the only safe thing to say.

Johnny shifted to roll onto his back, and Daniel let him and then pressed close again. Johnny put an arm around him but didn't look at him, just stared at the ceiling. Daniel watched his blue eyes move, tracing unknown invisible factors in the air.

He thought, if he could just reach in and rearrange everything so that it would be neat and clean and not cause either Johnny or Robby any more pain, if he could just _fix_ them – he'd do anything to be allowed that.

Alright, he thought. Enough wallowing.

“Hey,” he said, digging his knee into the other man's thigh. Johnny twitched and his eyes came down. His arm around Daniel tightened. It was the easiest thing in the world to kiss him and forget everything else for the moment.


	3. NINE

(Robby thinks: waking up in a room I have all to myself was supposed to feel better than this.)  
  


* * *

  
Mornings with Johnny could never just be easy; they never seemed to get in sync with one another. Their schedules didn't allow for it.

On weekdays, Daniel's alarm went at 6:30, and he had trained himself to turn it off only after sitting up and pushing off the sheet and blanket. This was easier to do when Johnny wasn't lying half on top of him, claiming, one leg slung heavily between his. But Daniel persevered.

“Shut that shit off,” mumbled Johnny, grabbing for a pillow to slap over his head.

Daniel rolled his eyes and shoved him away enough that he could sit up and do just that. Then he lingered a moment in place, surveying the room dumbly and forcing himself to wake up a little before getting out of bed. But lingering carried its own danger.

Leaving the pillow balanced on his head, Johnny dropped his hand and curled it high over Daniel's thigh. He didn't mean anything by it, Daniel knew. He wasn't even properly awake. It was some kind of muscle memory at work; Johnny was always grabbing things, like he couldn't be sure they were real until he held them.

Daniel looked down at him, eyes moving over the pale tufts of hair sticking out from beneath the pillow; the generous curve of his arm muscles; the too-loose collar of his T-shirt that got that way from Daniel pulling it a couple weeks back.

The alarm went off again, startling him out of his reverie; Daniel had accidentally hit the ten minute snooze instead of turning it off.  
  


* * *

  
He shouldn't have been surprised when he turned around from making coffee in the kitchen to find Robby standing there. The boy was a little pale, something peaky around his eyes, but he was standing upright and wearing fresh clothes, which was more than could be said for his father.

“Forgot you were an early riser,” commented Daniel. “Coffee?”

Robby nodded. “Please.” He hesitantly slid onto a counter stool as he waited for it to be deposited in front of him. When Daniel fixed it up – generous with the milk with a dash of sugar – he blinked down at the mug for a long moment.

“Not how you take it anymore?” he asked, watching him closely. “Taste buds change, I know—”

“No,” said Robby, curling a hand around the mug. “It's fine. Thanks.”

They both took a drink.

“So, any special plans for your first full day as a free man? Johnny said you don't start at the new school until Monday.”

“Thought I'd go to the skate park, maybe.”

Robby still didn't look up and meet his eyes. Something was different here, and it wasn't just the hangover. He had always been very receptive to attention, like a plant bending towards light. It was unusual for him to be so reticent and subdued; even when they'd visited him at the center, he had shown more animation than this.

Give it time, Daniel thought, for what felt like the twentieth repetition.

“Well, that sounds great. Getting right back in the saddle, that's great.” He looked around the kitchen.  
“Can I, uh – can I make you anything before I have to head in to work? Maybe some eggs?”

Robby shook his head. He sent something shaped like a smile that didn't reach his eyes in Daniel's general direction. “I'm good. Thanks, Mr. LaRusso.”

He almost winced. “Uh – Robby. I think, y'know. You can call me Daniel now. I'm not your teacher anymore.”

Robby, sliding back off the stool, paused at that. He finally looked up and met his eyes.

Something in Daniel dropped.

“What are you, then?” he asked. “To me, I mean. What are you supposed to be to me?” His tone was calm, curious, and utterly devoid of other feeling. “Do you even know?”

And then he left the kitchen, abandoning the mug on the counter. Daniel could only watch him go, frozen in place.  
  


* * *

  
Something he discovered not long after Amanda and he first had Sam was that the average adult was capable of feats of incredible strength previously unknown to his younger self. One such Promethean task was the simple ability to have one's heart stomped on and ego humbled first thing in the morning – and then to continue on into work as usual. This invisible struggle happened every day all over for loads of people. As far as he was concerned, they all deserved a goddamn medal.

He was nursing a second cup of coffee at his desk and trying to focus on a sales report when Amanda knocked and stuck her head in the door.

“Morning,” she said, and the cut straight to the point: “How'd it go?”

He'd never been able to dissemble in front of Amanda, and he didn't bother to try then. She winced at his expression.

“That bad, huh?”

He fell back against his chair. “Tell me honestly – how bad did I mess up with Robby?”

She actually came into the office and shut the door behind her. That bad, huh.

“Have you forgotten the series of screaming matches we had at the end of the summer?” she asked.

“Not forgetting,” he said, rubbing his temple, “but they kind of blended seamlessly with the screaming matches we had in the fall and winter.”

She folded her arms. “Daniel, you told him he was family. We promised his mother we'd take care of him, and then you kicked him out of the house without even talking to me about it first.”

“I hadn't planned to kick him out,” he said, and it didn't feel like a dodge because emotionally it rang true. “I just needed to cool off, you know how I get.”

“Yeah, but Robby doesn't. Didn't, whatever. I saw you with those kids, Daniel. You acted like Yoda. It's like you were a completely different person.”

How could he explain that it wasn't an act, some bit he did. He'd felt like a different person when he was teaching the kids. A person he actually liked.

He sighed and put his head back to stare the ceiling. “I think he might hate me,” he said after a moment, and he felt impossibly foolish for having never considered the possibility before now.

There was some kind of cruel sense of humor at work here. Was he ever going to have a clean slate with that family? Maybe dating Johnny was tempting fate. Daniel was going to keep doing it anyway, because when had that ever stopped him, but still. Why did everything have to be so fucking hard, constantly.

“He might hate you,” said Amanda, his helpful partner for life. “But it's like when Sam was sixteen and resented every word that came out of my mouth. You can't let it change how you behave. Either he'll get over it, or he'll get back on his feet and move out and never talk to you again.”

He slouched down a little. “Oh, are those the stakes? Great.”

“Your problem, Daniel,” she said, turning to go, “is the last time a teenager hated you, it was Johnny. You're out of practice.”  
  


* * *

  
Johnny got up around nine, early for him, and shuffled half-blind to the bathroom, where he pissed for what felt like ten minutes, then took a shower that unfortunately didn't seem to last nearly so long. He wrapped his hips in a towel and wiped a hand across the fogged mirror, before he could remember not to because Daniel said it left a streak. Oh well. He squinted at his reflection and rubbed his stubble and resigned himself to shaving.

He remembered Robby was in the house just as he was running the safety razor over his adam's apple.

“Fuck!” he said, and dabbed at the spot of blood. “Jesus.”

A knock on the bathroom door, and he jumped like a hot chick in a horror movie.

“Dad?” said Robby, low. “You uh, everything okay?”

“Yeah, just – cut myself shaving like a goddamn kid.” He thought about that and then yanked the bathroom door open. Robby, already having continued a few feet down the hallway, blinked back at him. Johnny squinted. “Do you know how to shave? I mean, someone taught you?”

“I'm eighteen,” said Robby blankly.

“Right. Right, of course. Forget it.”

“I don't really – need to shave all that often,” he added, sounding some mix of self-conscious and conciliatory. He looked as weirded out as Johnny felt.

“Yeah, I didn't either for the longest time. Lighter hair, I don't know.” He chewed on his cheek. “It'll come in eventually.”

“Not sure if I'm supposed to want it to, given the chance that I'll maim myself,” said Robby and he made a gesture like someone threatening death. Johnny didn't get it until he felt the trickle of blood run down his neck.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he said again, ducking back into the bathroom.  
  


* * *

  
After careful application of toilet paper and clothes, Johnny wandered the house until he found Robby again, sitting in the living room and looking through the records they'd unpacked the night before. They were all Daniel's, so a lot of stuff Johnny either didn't know or didn't care for, with a few notable exceptions. He wondered if Robby was familiar with the collection, from before.

“Hey,” he said, and Robby flinched and a dropped a vinyl sleeve. And yeah, maybe he'd barked that out. Shit. He said, more quietly, “Hey, did uh, Daniel make you breakfast?”

He replaced the vinyl in the crate. “No, I – he had to go into work.”

Johnny nodded. “Want to go somewhere? Grease is what your hangover needs.”

Robby stole a quick look, appearing indecisive. Johnny waited three seconds and then was kind of over it. He slapped Robby's shoulder as he passed on his way to the garage.

“That was another trick question, man. C'mon, let's go.”

Johnny figured he could either bluff his way through this, or lay down and die. He knew which option he would always choose.


	4. EIGHT

(Robby thinks: polyurethane wheels rolling over cracked concrete, wind through my hair, the scrape-clack-clap of the board as I jump it over this curb. This is what I've been missing; the balance I have now, the only balance I'm allowed. It can be enough. It's gotta be.)  
  


* * *

  
Johnny paused on his way to the fridge and thought about it; something was scratching at the back of his mind. But what? It was a quarter to six (the reminder nudged him onward to the fridge and a new can), which meant Miguel and his family were sitting down to dinner and Daniel – right. Daniel was usually home by now. And Johnny thought he'd heard the garage door go earlier. So where was he?

He set the beer down on the counter and wandered over to the interior connecting door.

Daniel's car was in the dark garage; Daniel was still in the car. Johnny could see he had his seat back.

He walked over and tried the door; it was still locked from the drive. He bent down and gave Daniel a look through the glass. After a moment, the other man reached up and pressed a button, and the locks disengaged. Johnny climbed into the car.

Daniel closed his eyes and didn't say anything in greeting. Pink Floyd was on the stereo. It was all kind of pathetic, but it's not like Johnny hadn't been there before. So he put his own seat back and settled in, letting the moody, downer vibe of Mother wash over him.

Daniel's car was newer than new, one of those recent models with enough computer components it could probably be reconfigured into a bomb if they needed. It had sound-canceling panels and a massive center screen, and it felt more like sitting in the cockpit of a very prissy spaceship than a car. Johnny bet you couldn't even feel it if you hit a pothole; he should ask Daniel, as there were plenty of potholes in Reseda he had to navigate around now. Point was, the car felt like its own little world, totally cut-off from the outside. (The road rage associated with this thing must be killer. Johnny's had his share of rich pricks screaming at him from the safety of cars like this one.)

“Gotta ask,” he said eventually, “are you hiding from my kid right now?”

“No,” lied Daniel instantly.

“Because he's not even here. You could be doing... whatever this is on our new sofa. And that way I wouldn't have to navigate this stupid center console if I wanted to blow you.”

“Where'd he go?” asked Daniel, and it was depressing that the mention of a blow job warranted so little distraction. What the hell, see if Johnny ever blows him again.

“I don't know. He's eighteen, he took his skateboard and left.”

“You didn't _ask_?” said Daniel, a little disbelieving. He cracked open his eyes finally and looked over at Johnny.

“He's eighteen,” he said again. “When I was eighteen, I went to Vegas and didn't return for a week and no one so much as blinked.”

“That's different.”

“Yeah, 'course it was. You know what kind of crazy shit they were doing in Vegas in '85?”And when Daniel scoffed, looking away to hide his smile, Johnny added, “Look, I'm just happy he's going outside, that Robby's not one of those kids staring at his phone in his room all day.”

“You mean like Anthony?”

“Hey, you said it, not me.”

“Really, Johnny? You want to start comparing sons?”

And just like that, it stopped being funny. Johnny shifted, hating the creak of the leather in that moment, and said quietly, “No.”

Daniel sighed. He didn't apologize, and he didn't take it back. What he did do was reach up to stab the radio off, loosen his tie, and say in the glummest fucking tone Johnny had ever heard in his life:

“Is that blow job still on the table?”

And the saddest thing of all – it was, because Johnny had always had crap defenses against Daniel.

“I hate these bulky center consoles,” he muttered, rising up. “This wouldn't be so difficult in my old car.”

“It's why they designed them like this, you know,” said Daniel, slouching down in his seat; legs spreading; hands going to his belt buckle. “Wanted to discourage road head.”

“Really?” He wouldn't put anything past automakers these days.

“No, probably not.”

Bending over the console felt stupid and kind of hurt his back, but Daniel's hand carding through his hair was by turns gentle and firm, and Johnny couldn't get enough of the way he fell apart beneath him.  
  


* * *

  
A few days passed and they all settled into a tentative detente.

Daniel kept making coffee for Robby first thing in the morning, but after that first day he didn't come back to the kitchen. Not one to give up, Daniel made it anyway and left it outside his bedroom door after a knock and quick word of warning not to trip over the mug. When he got back in the evenings, the mug was washed and waiting in its usual place in the cupboard, so he had to assume the boy was at least drinking it.

It felt a little like feeding a stray cat, if the food was caffeine and the cat was nursing a grudge from when he'd grievously failed it, and alright, the metaphor didn't stretch that well, but the point was: stray cats always come back in the end. So Daniel kept the coffee flowing.

More frustrating were the conversations he had with Johnny. It was as unlike any moment in his eighteen years of joint parenting with Amanda as was possible. He didn't know if this was a good thing or not, and it was hard to judge because Johnny mostly didn't say much.

“He's eighteen,” was the man's favorite new refrain. For the life of him, Daniel couldn't tell if Johnny meant it in a _Robby can be trusted to look after himself_ way or, much more worrying, something like: _he'll need to learn how to look after himself._

For example, on Thursday, Daniel got tired of having all his texts ignored and called Johnny on his lunch break.

“Yeah?” was Johnny's usual greeting.

“Have you taken Robby clothes shopping yet?” he asked without preamble. He'd been telling him to do it for two days. Most of the kid's old wardrobe didn't properly fit; Robby was down to sweats and athletic wear. And he started school the next week, for fuck sake.

“No, no I have not. You remember I'm not your housewife, right? I have work too, Daniel. I'm over in Chatsworth right now.”

“I know you're not my housewife,” said Daniel very evenly, thinking about the dinners he had to cook and the laundry he had to sort before it got destroyed. “But as has been pointed out to me many, many times, you are Robby's actual father. So maybe you could handle this very fucking basic—”

Johnny hung up on him.

Daniel's hand tightened on the phone to a danger point of cracking the plastic, but he did not throw it at the wall. It was a near thing, though.

After a careful breathing session, he texted: _At least give him some money so he can take care of it himself._ He nearly added something about how Robby was eighteen and could manage that, but the thought that Johnny would be oblivious to his sarcasm was too infuriating to contemplate, and he left it off at the last second.  
  


* * *

  
Johnny winced and sucked at the edge of his swelling thumb and then shook it out as he walked down the hallway to Robby's room. He rapped his knuckles on the door and called through the wood:

“Robby. You need clothes.”

Sound from the inside; the boy getting up and walking over. He opened the door and blinked up at Johnny. “Was that a question?”

“No,” he said. “I know skinny jeans are all the rage with you kids, but you're kind of pushing the boundaries. I'm assuming you can shop for yourself? Like, you know where to go, or whatever.”

“Been hitting up Goodwill since I was thirteen,” he said cautiously.

Johnny wondered if _hitting up_ was code for _knocking over_. He squinted at him and said, “Great. How much do you need?” Daniel would probably be horrified if he knew he forked over like, twenty bucks.

Now Robby looked uncomfortable. “I don't really—”

“Robby, I can afford to clothe you, give me a break here.”

His face went blank. “Fine. Fifty?”

“Cool.” And he dug into his back pocket, forgetting his busted thumb until it was pinching around the wallet and then screaming out in agony. “Fuck!”

Robby tilted his head and stared down. “What did you—”

Johnny lifted his hand into the light of the room so they could both admire the fully glory of the purpling skin and blackening pool of blood beneath the nail. “Yeah, hammered it pretty good. Stupid phone distracted me.” He paused, gaze flicking over the boy's curious face. “Hey, wanna see something really gross?”  
  


* * *

  
He set up on the kitchen counter, where the hanging spotlight fixtures could approximate operation room lighting. He plugged in his cord and Robby bent in close beside him to watch in fascination as Johnny carefully drilled a small hole in his thumbnail.

“It's what they'd do in the Emergency Room anyway,” Johnny told him as the blood welled up and out. The pressure in his thumb immediately abated, which was a relief because that had seriously fucking hurt, actually.

Robby shifted on his elbows. “Yeah, I know – a guy down at the skate park once had his hand rolled over, and he told us about it later. Said they drilled a hole, slapped a bandage on it, and charged him a couple hundred.”

“Highway robbery.”

“Yeah.”

Underneath the racket of the power drill, they must've missed the sound of the garage, because suddenly Daniel was across the room staring at the setup: the drill and the blood-spotted paper towels and the two of them standing over Johnny's mangled thumb.

Johnny thought the look on the man's face was hilarious, but he totally wasn't going to laugh – except then Robby did, and it seemed unfair not to join in.


	5. SEVEN

(Robby thinks: I never thought I'd belong to that family, but for a while I was able to pretend, and it was great. They made it so easy to pretend. I hate them for how easy they made it.)  
  


* * *

  
“There's no reason this weekend has to go badly,” said Daniel from the other room, over the buzz of his electric toothbrush.

Johnny sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his socks. He gave them a cautious sniff, decided they were a lost cause, and checked himself before letting them drop, eyes flicking up to make sure the other man hadn't seen. He folded one sock inside the other, took aim for the laundry hamper in the far corner and flicked his wrist. Score.

“I mean, it's not like it's destiny.” Daniel sidestepped into the doorway and looked at him. “Right? So why am I standing here feeling like an Allied soldier waiting to run the line at Gallipoli?”

Johnny studied his foam-bleeding mouth and wide eyes. “Have I mentioned how thankful I am this place is a one-and-a-half bath? Imagine if you had to use the sink down the hall. Then I'd miss out on all this.”

He actually kind of loved it that Daniel couldn't shut up long enough even to brush his teeth in peace. Johnny had enough years living with his own silence.

Daniel narrowed his eyes and ducked back in the bathroom to spit. Johnny swiftly got up and stole across the room on silent feet. He waited until he heard him rinse and spit again and then slipped into the bathroom.

“You're seriously not worried?” asked Daniel, not batting an eye as Johnny crowded him against the wall by the sink.

Johnny reached down grabbed behind his thighs, tugging until the other man gave in and hitched them up over his hips. He took the weight, bracing them against the wall, and said, “Nah, not really.”

“How are you handling this better than me,” he wondered, “and why does it bother me so much?”

He nosed along his neck and kissed his jaw. “Maybe I'm handling this better because I _have_ you.”

Daniel paused and then, sounding more surprised than anything: “That – that was actually kind of sweet.”

“I can be sweet,” said Johnny, grinding forward. Between his boxers and Daniel's stupid pajama pants, there was practically nothing between their dicks and it was kind of awesome. “Just wait until you see what I do for our anniversary.”

Alright, maybe he was getting carried away now. He didn't actually have any ideas about their anniversary; more than likely, he'd forget it when the day actually came along. But he was unable to resist the brag. Always a critical weakness on his part.

Daniel put two fingers against his forehead and pushed his head back so he could look into his eyes. “Hold up. What day are we counting as our anniversary, exactly?”

How was the man able to still ask questions when his dick was practically begging for Johnny's attention, seriously. If Johnny couldn't feel it, he'd start to worry.

“If I suggest our arrest date, will you make me put you back down?”

Daniel's legs tightened around him. “Yes.”

“Okay, well – you decide. But later, man, c'mon—” and he kissed him before Daniel could start outlining criteria and possibilities.  
  


* * *

  
The next morning after Daniel had left, Johnny said to Robby: “Look, the thing you have to remember about Anthony – and you lived with the kid, so you gotta know – is that he's kind of a dick.”

Robby blinked up from his cereal bowl. “I don't think you're supposed to say things like that?”

“It's not like I'm saying it to his face.” Johnny thought about it. “Often.”

“But how does your – ” Robby must've caught the warning look on Johnny's face, because he course-corrected just in time, “Mr. LaRusso feel about you calling his son a dick?”

“It hasn't come up,” he said. “Look, Daniel's nervous. His kids didn't take the divorce well, and they took me – kinda less well than that.” They were veering dangerously close to actually talking about it, so Johnny finished up quickly. “I'm just saying, if you and Anthony can get along. Y'know. Do that.”

Robby finished his cereal and took the bowl over to the sink. He said over his shoulder, “We didn't really interact a whole lot before. He's a big gamer, and that's never really been my thing.”

Of course Robby didn't play video games. He wasn't a nerd. And maybe he was like Johnny and found it easier to think and operate in the physical world. Johnny wasn't sure there were people still like that these days, like him.

Robby rinsed out the bowl and spoon and put them in the dishwasher. He didn't turn around when he asked neutrally, “Is Sam coming too?”

Fuck, why was he asking Johnny about this and not Daniel? Every guy had to learn eventually what it was like to have an ex-girlfriend hate your guts, but he shouldn't have to find that out from his _father_.

“I think she has some kind of college thing,” he said.

Robby breathed out a slight laugh, which seemed like a good sign until he turned around and met Johnny's eyes.

“Dad,” he said, “you really think I can't tell when you're lying to me? You've been doing it my whole life.”

Johnny had to give him this: the kid really knew how to – what would Miguel say? – drop the fucking mic. He let him walk away after; he always let Robby walk away.  
  


* * *

  
They pulled into the garage and Daniel said, “If you promise not to be," ( _a dick_ , said the Johnny voice in his head), “rude to Robby, I'll buy you that new game coming out next week.” He didn't even know its name, but there was always a new game coming out the next week, wasn't there?

“Mom already pre-ordered it,” said Anthony.

Daniel put his forehead against the steering wheel. And sure, he was supposed to have a better game face than this, but it was hard keeping up appearances when your son had three different versions of your drunk pre-arrest karate fight saved on his phone at any given moment in time.

A groan from the passenger seat: “Dad, stop being so dramatic. Jeez. Look, I won't be mean to your substitute son, okay.”

He raised his head and looked over in faint alarm. “Hey, Anthony, you know you're—”

“Your actual son, yeah. I know.” He shrugged and undid his seat belt. "Mom gave me the whole talk when Robby first moved in with us last time.”

Some days Daniel didn't know whether to be relieved, awed, or terrified of his son's bulletproof self-esteem. But at least it made some things easier.  
  


* * *

  
Johnny came back from a job late in the evening, and Daniel supposed the two of them had to be doing something right if he felt this much relief at the sight of him. The house had been conspicuously silent for several hours, and he had resorted to making stress korokke.

Johnny came in and dumped his tool belt on the floor (damn him), saying over his shoulder, “Hey,” and then Daniel was kissing him right inside the door.

“Uh,” said Johnny, because they generally didn't do this where the kids could see, they both agreed on that, but also: “Hm,” because he loved it when Daniel got a little desperate.

When Daniel finally let go of his face, Johnny said low, “Fuck. That bad?”

He backed off to the let the other man properly into the house and said, “No, no. It's been fine.”

“Right.” He angled a look over the counter at the stove. “What's the brown stuff in the pot?”

“Tonkatsu sauce.” He wasn't sure why he bothered, but if the man was going to ask, Daniel was going to tell him. Maybe in ten years he'd actually remember it.

Daniel knocked his wooden spoon onto the floor. Ten years? Where the fuck had that come from?

Johnny glanced around the (still stubbornly empty) first floor and then looked back at him with raised eyebrows. He leaned his elbows down on the counter top and said, “You want a beer or something?”

“No.”

“Sorry – I meant, you want a martini? I don't think either kid is going to be fooled by you right now.”

Daniel flicked a look from his sauce to Johnny. “Do you even know how to make a martini?” he hedged.

Johnny smiled his most punchable smile. “I do. I looked it up on Google earlier.”

It was impossible not to feel at least a little touched. This was where he was at now. Ludicrous. “And who said Johnny Lawrence doesn't know how to plan ahead?”

He straightened. “I don't know, who said that?”

“Probably me,” he admitted.  
  


* * *

  
The problem with Anthony had always been, he didn't know when to quit. When he was very little, his smartass comments had been funny and kind of cute, and by the time they realized they'd failed to set appropriate boundaries for them, it was too late. He took delight in stepping on uncomfortable topics and watching people struggle to respond. He had reached the stage of teenager where he realized the rules of civility were all made up, but had not yet grown up enough to learn they existed for a reason.

(That is, Anthony has never been punched in the face, fired from a job, or sued.)

“So,” he said over dinner, once they'd finished passing around the plates of food and Daniel had his mouth full of panko and potato, “what was Juvie like?”

Johnny looked at Anthony from the right, eyes narrowed. But Robby's movements didn't suffer so much as a hiccup.

“Pretty boring, for the most part. You still have to do classwork, but there's a bunch of group counseling and stuff. A lot of – art therapy.”

“Did you have to wear like, prison uniforms?”

Johnny and Daniel each took a drink.

Robby shrugged. “Just – sweats and T-shirts, it's not like we were in orange jumpsuits or anything like that.”

Anthony nodded, looking momentarily stymied. Daniel extended a foot below the table and lightly kicked. He looked up and Daniel widened his eyes meaningfully, because he couldn't exactly say _shut the fuck up_ to his son.

“Mr. LaRusso, it's all right,” said Robby suddenly. He glanced over, startled, and the boy's mouth spread in a not-smile. “I've already been asked all these questions by like ten people at the skate park.”

“Well – be that as it may, that doesn't mean Anthony shouldn't know better,” he said, shifting his look.

His son tensed, and fuck, _shit_ – what had Amanda said about him starting to talk back to teachers when reprimanded in front of others—

He turned to Robby. “Did you have to watch your back in the showers?”

Johnny shoved his plate forward in a loud rattle of cutlery and ceramic and said flatly, “I think you should leave the table, kid.”

“You can't tell me what to do, you're not my dad,” he said.

Daniel rubbed his face tiredly. “Anthony, leave the table.”

“Fine.” He got up, face reddened. “I don't even get why I have to be here if Sam doesn't. Are you hoping he'll kick me over a banister too?”

“ _Anthony_!”

“Whatever.” And then he was gone, heavy tread on the stairs followed by a slammed door ten seconds later.

“I'm going out,” said Robby, getting up and leaving his plate mostly uneaten.

“Okay,” said Johnny, which, what the hell, Johnny? That's not—

“Hey, hold up,” said Daniel. “Robby—”

And then he was gone too.

They both sat and stared at the table in silence. Daniel felt a creeping tendril of pain starting to unfurl behind his left eye.

“These potato thingies, they're pretty good,” said Johnny dully after a moment. He put one in his mouth and chewed, and Daniel would be shocked if he could taste anything. His own appetite had disappeared with the implication of prison assault.

“Could you make me another martini?” he asked. “I'm going to go lie on the couch and think of all reasons not to make a run for the Canadian border.”


	6. SIX

(Robby thinks: it's all about time. This is why I'm going to the shitty alternate school alongside would-be felons and pregnant teenagers instead of just taking the G.E.D. and getting this whole part of my life over with. The counselor said I need time to adjust, to figure things out. Would've told her to fuck off, but she was just trying to help. She couldn't know it's all already too late.)  
  


* * *

  
On Sunday, Johnny sat on the ground in front of the coffee table and tried to sort the stack of forms in front of him. He swore there were duplicates in here, no way could all these pages look this similar without being identical.

As he waited, Robby sat back on the couch and tossed a stress ball in the air. It was something they'd given him in the center, but he had yet to use it properly that Johnny could see. It was bright red and had the words _every day is a new choice_ printed on it. As far as messages went, that had to be one of the most stressful things one could put on a stress ball, he thought.

“Did you already look through these?” he asked, flipping a form. He'd added Robby to his health insurance; why couldn't the insurance just notify the school? Computers everywhere and somehow none of this was automated, why. “I'm not the greatest hand at paperwork.”

“That's 'cause you have ADHD,” said Robby tonelessly. He continued tossing the ball.

Right. “If insulting me makes you feel better, go ahead and keep doing it,” he said, aiming for even. “But if you're trying to get a rise out of me, you might as well give up now, man. It's not gonna happen.”

Robby caught the ball. He sat up and looked at him with barely concealed impatience. “That wasn't an insult. I've been on Dexedrine since I was fourteen, and they say at least one of the parents usually has it too.”

“Oh,” he said and thought about it. There wasn't really a safe path forward here. “So I guess Shannon—”

Robby sighed and fell back against the cushions again. He resumed tossing the ball.  
  


* * *

  
Amanda turned from watching Anthony's rampage through the house and raised her eyebrows at Daniel. From a distance, a door slammed. They both winced.

“Yeah,” said Daniel. “So, that's about how that went.”

“What does one send a teenage boy as an apology?” wondered Amanda. “Flowers and a teddy bear are out, I'm assuming. I can't remember, does Robby like chocolate?”

“Robby's not getting chocolate. He was out last night until three in the morning.”

She tilted her head. “He _is_ eighteen.”

He paused, disbelieving. “Now you sound like Johnny. What the boy needs right now is – structure. He needs to know there are boundaries, guardrails.”

“Daniel, he was just released from a detention center, I think he's had plenty of structure.”

Sam wandered through the room and caught the last of what her mother said. Her back went rigid.

“Hey, Sam,” said Daniel, leaning around to smile at her. “How's – okay,” because she had left the room just as quickly as she entered. He looked at Amanda, who sighed.

“Yeah. That's about how that went,” she said.

“You know if we'd had kids earlier, they'd be all grown up and moved out by now, and we could be retired?”  
  


* * *

  
That night, Johnny curled around Daniel on the bed and said, “Can you take Robby to school tomorrow morning?”

“Better question is, will Robby let me take him to school tomorrow morning,” he said. His hands came down to cover Johnny's. “You have work or something?” And, when the silence lasted longer than a couple seconds: “Is this more of that superstition you were talking about before?”

“First time I drive my kid to school in his whole life, and he ends up in a karate riot that lands him in jail and almost paralyzes my other kid. This isn't superstition, it's – like, a curse. Maybe. I mean, why tempt fate?”

He turned around and looked at Johnny, who rolled his eyes to the side in discomfort and buried half his face in the pillow. Daniel said, “You get that all of that had precisely nothing to do with who drove him in that day?”

“Are you saying you won't do it,” he mumbled into the pillow.

Sometimes Daniel still found this feeling in his chest unbearable.

He said, “Of course I'll do it,” and leaned in to give him as filthy a kiss as he could manage, before either of them embarrassed himself as a sap.  
  


* * *

  
“So,” said Daniel, hands at ten and two. “You nervous?”

“No.”

“That's good, that's good. Nothing to be nervous about – you'll only be here for a couple months, after all. Then you'll graduate and be a free man.” He winced out the windshield. Great choice of words, LaRusso. “Just keep your head down and you'll be fine.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Red light. Daniel looked over at Robby. “Hey – I know, listen. I know I screwed things up with you before. But I want you know—”

“Light's green.”

Daniel drove forward. He merged into the center lane and hit his indicator. “I want you to know,” he continued, determined, “that I do have confidence in you. I believe in you, Robby.” How was it possible for everything he said to sound so fucking fake when he meant it with all his heart?

“Daniel, it's half a semester at the alternate school. I really don't need an inspirational pep talk about it.”

He blinked at him. “You called me Daniel.”

Robby's hands tightened over the straps of his backpack in his lap. He said without looking over, “You told me to.”

“Right. Yeah, I know.”

Robby took a careful breath. “Should I—”

“No, no. Daniel's good. I mean, you're not a kid anymore, right?”

“Right.”

The alternate school looked normal enough on the outside. He parked in front of it and they both leaned forward in their seats to peer at the brick building. Daniel hadn't known what to expect: something covered in graffiti and trash, like one of those schools in movies about a plucky teacher who saves a bunch of hard-done students?

“Do you want me to,” he started and then trailed off when Robby only shook his head firmly.

“Half a semester, Daniel,” he said again, opening the door and sliding out. “Really, it's not a big deal.”

Daniel tried to control his smile to a normal degree, not wanting to spook him. He lifted a hand and said, “Okay, have a great day!”

He watched until the boy had disappeared through the front doors and then broke at least three traffic laws speeding back to the house.

“Oh, hey,” said Johnny, standing over the stove in his boxers, hair a disaster. “How did—okay, yeah,” and he reached over to switch off the stove as Daniel crowded him into the corner of the countertop and kissed him.

“So it went well,” he said, after.

“Progress was made,” said Daniel. He felt impossibly light and he couldn't stop smiling.  
  


* * *

  
That night, Robby didn't come home at all.


	7. FIVE

(Robby thinks: it's only that he is older than everyone else, and he spent the entire day thinking about how the people in his old schools had already graduated, were moving forward with their lives while he was sitting through American History for morons on a sunny afternoon. Some people's starting line on the track isn't just further back, it's coated in wet cement. He promised himself years ago he'd never be like his mom and dad. Now he wonders if they ever thought the same thing at his age. Eventually the thought turns into an excuse, turns into _fuck it_ , and he accepts another shot.)  
  


* * *

  
Daniel shoved up on his elbows, listening. “Was that the door?”

Johnny's arm tightened around him and he sighed into his ribs. “No, I don't think so.”

He slid out from underneath the other man. “This is stupid, why are we even bothering to pretend here. I'm going to make some coffee.”

“ _That_ would be stupid,” said Johnny, reaching for Daniel's abandoned pillow and shoving it under his head. He watched the other man's bare ass cross the room and then let his eyes close again as Daniel swiped his pajamas from the floor and stepped into them. He said to the darkness of his eyelids, “And if he comes home in forty minutes? You won't be able to sleep for the rest of the night. You have work tomorrow, that meeting. Thing.” Surely it counted as caring that he even knew there _was_ a thing, never mind the particulars.

“If he comes home in forty minutes, we won't be sleeping anyway because we're going to be yelling at him.” And then Daniel was out of the bedroom.

Johnny breathed deep. He let himself soak in the warmth of the bed for a moment more and then, mindful of the terror that would be an over-caffeinated Daniel in the middle of the night, he made himself get up. Searching for his boxers was a lost cause, and he could swear he could hear the coffeemaker start up over in the kitchen, so he grabbed a fresh pair and hustled.

Daniel was leaning against the counter, palms flat on the top, and staring grimly at the coffeemaker. He startled out of his thoughts as Johnny pressed up behind him and reached around to flick the machine off.

“You are vastly overestimating my fondness for you, if you think you can turn off my coffee,” he said shortly. Jesus.

Johnny patted his bare stomach and stepped back. “You need to calm down.”

Daniel turned around, and yeah, maybe that was the wrong choice of words. But, to be fair, there wasn't really a right choice when he got that look on his face.

“Do you know how much I hate people telling me to calm down?” he said. "They always say it like they know something I don't, and they're always wrong."

Johnny made a slight face at the opposite wall and then slumped down on one of the kitchen stools. “Think I have an idea, yeah.”

“It's three-thirty in the morning after his first day at a new school, the second night it a row he's been out late.”

“Yeah, thanks, Daniel,” he said. “I had noticed.”

“And what are you doing about it?”

“I'm doing the same thing you're doing – I'm waiting. It's all we can do at this point. I'd appreciate it if you stopped looking at me like the enemy, though.” He thought about it for a couple seconds and got off the stool, heading back to the bedroom.

“Where are you going?” demanded Daniel behind him.

He turned around again and put out his arms. “With your permission, I'm going to grab a pillow and a fucking blanket so I can sleep on the couch.”

“You're going to sleep.” Disbelief in his voice.

“On the couch, yeah.” He gestured at the door. “That way I'll wake up when he comes in. Do you see a problem with this plan? If he doesn't come home, I'll need to go look for him, and I'll do that a whole lot better if I'm not wrapping my car around a street post from falling asleep at the wheel.”

“This shouldn't even be a choice, Johnny. That you think you'll be able to actually fall asleep—”

His spine went rigid. “What, exactly, are you accusing me of here? You're saying, what, I don't care enough about my kid?”

“Loving a child and being practiced at caring for one are two different things.”

Johnny breathed on that. His fists clenched, but he shook them out just as quick, because shoving an old school enemy and shoving someone you were in a relationship with were two very different things. He met Daniel's dark, angry gaze and said quietly:

“I'm going to pretend you didn't just throw that in my face.”

And he went to get the pillow and blanket, though by then he figured there was very little point in it. Fat chance he was going to be able to sleep with those words ricocheting around his head. When Daniel took aim, he only ever did it with armor-piercing bullets.  
  


* * *

  
Daniel didn't end up making any coffee; his stomach was roiling too much for the option to remain feasible. Instead he went back to the bedroom and hid there like a coward.

Where was his compartmentalization now, he thought savagely, rubbing his face. His relationship with Johnny wasn't supposed to be contingent on Robby. He hadn't thought about it like that, which in retrospect was amazingly stupid – the first cracks in his marriage to Amanda had appeared alongside problems with the kids, and their differing opinions on how to deal with them. That was what it meant to be a parent, you were never just yourself.

But he wasn't in the wrong here. Johnny didn't get it, and Daniel did not even mean that in a holier-than-thou way. Johnny didn't get it, because Johnny thought Robby was this street smart whiz kid. He thought his son was tough, bullet-proof. He thought that because he had to think it, because otherwise he'd have to face up to the truth.

Johnny had never seen Robby rush into a fight (the way Johnny would rush into fights). Johnny had never seen Robby hold a grudge (the way Johnny would hold grudges).

He had never seen Robby cornered on a beach, outnumbered and scared.  
  


* * *

  
Daniel didn't sleep. He paced, he washed his face three times, and he stretched out on top of the bed and closed his eyes for variety. He listened hard but heard no sounds from the other room.

Johnny, he thought bitterly, had probably fallen asleep within five minutes.

At five-thirty, he left one final message on Robby's voicemail. At six, he got up, took the rare morning shower to rinse off the long night's sweat, and got dressed. His skin felt hypersensitive, body bruised all over. His face in the mirror looked older than he'd ever seen it: lines under his eyes and the silver at his temples finally looking real and not like an affectation.

 _If I mess this up now,_ he thought and thought no more.  
  


* * *

Johnny wasn't in the living room. The blanket was folded and stacked on top of the pillow at the end of the sofa. The careful, neat sight of it made Daniel's stomach drop. It was so premeditated.

He stared at it for a long moment before going into the kitchen and starting the coffeemaker. Then he turned around and slumped against the counter, and stared at it some more.

His phone beeped and he hurried to check it, but it was only a reminder about that day's meeting with the billboard company rep. He locked the screen again and put the phone away. The coffeemaker clicked off and he reached to take out his mug, hand pausing over the second one he already thought of as Robby's.

“Fuck!” 

He kicked the cabinet door. His foot actually splintered the wood panel.

He cursed again, more of a disbelieving gasp this time, and hopped-limped to a stool. Through the blinding pain in his toe he still had the numb thought: _residential construction has really gone to shit in this country._

He didn't know how long he sat there, blinking and breathing through the agony. But at some point there was a telltale jangle of keys outside the door and then Johnny was walking in, dragging Robby by his elbow. He was still in his boxers, a hoodie half-zipped over his chest, and bare feet shoved into sneakers. Robby was drunk.

They both stared at Daniel, who stared back. He had his foot up on the stool, knee against his chest.

“What the fuck happened to you?” asked Johnny.

“Tell you later,” said Daniel. He nodded at them. “Where was he.”

“Old buddy of mine saw him at an all-night diner and texted me.”

When Robby squinted over at Daniel, he'd never looked more like his father. “Can I have some coffee? I have to be at school in like. Two hours.”


	8. FOUR

(Robby thinks: Dad and Daniel are fighting, which I knew was inevitable. I mean, who were they kidding? Except I saw them when they visited the Center, I've seen them around the house when they don't realize I've entered the room. If their whole lives before now were just a dramatic prequel to their great, gay karate love story, what does that make me if not an obstacle to be overcome in the third act? Dad and Daniel are fighting, and it's about me. I screw up shit without even trying. Wonder if I can spin that better on a resume.)  
  


* * *

  
Amanda looked at him and tapped a pen on the conference table. Click, click, click.

“I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think you looked better after your bender-cum-fistfight-cum-first date.” She wheeled her chair back a couple inches and peeked again under the table. “And what's with the sneakers? I thought we agreed casual days were unprofessional.”

His lips parted, but he didn't say anything. He couldn't. After a moment, her smile faded.

“Oh, Daniel.”

It was some kind of awful final blow; he slumped forward and covered his eyes with a shaking hand. Amanda immediately circled the table, dragging a chair close to his.

“Well, it can't be that bad. You wouldn't have come into work if someone was hurt.”

He decided not to tell her about his foot. “Sorry. I just,” he said. “I just, um.” He swallowed and shook his head minutely. “I just need a moment, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

She put a hand on his back. “Daniel, whatever it is, you can work it out.”

He breathed out a shaky laugh from under the shelter of his hand. “You know _that's_ not true.”

She rubbed between his shoulder blades and said, “I'm going to see if they can reschedule—”

“No,” he says, straightening up and dropping his hand. He tugs his cuffs and looks at her, dry-eyed. Insides hollowed out. “No. Let's just – carry on like normal. Please. I need to feel I'm not fucking up one part of my life right now.”

Amanda searched his eyes critically. She sat back and said, perfectly neutral: “You let your competition with Johnny distract you from the business before. Sure you want to pinball this and let it distract you from him now?”

“That's not what I'm doing,” he said. He flattened his left hand against the table and looked down at it, at his ringless finger: the match to her own resting on the arm of the chair. “Trust me, nothing will be helped if I go home early today.”  
  


* * *

  
Johnny tapped his phone on his palm and fought with himself. After a couple minutes he thought _stop being a pussy_ , and he called Miguel.

He was familiar with the ring count: one, for Miguel to look at his phone in confusion and realize it's a call, not a text; two, for Miguel to consider not answering it because it's a call, not a text; three for Miguel to remember Johnny doesn't text; _four_ —

“Hey, Sensei. What's up?”

He turned and faced out the living room window. “Hey, how's the day treating you? Quick: Theatre of Pain number, go.”

Miguel huffed a laugh. “It's uh, let's see—”

“Don't let me down here.”

“...Smoking in the Boys' Room.”

“Alright. So long as you remembered the track number correctly, that's pretty damn good.”

“Haven't needed to sit in the chair once yet today,” he said proudly. Johnny grinned at the wall.

“Yeah, well. Don't get carried away. The more normal you feel—”

“The greater risk of re-injury,” recited Miguel. “Yeah, I know. I'm being careful, promise.”

“Good, good.” He looked down and cleared his throat. “I, uh. I can't make it over there today. Robby – Robby's sick, and someone should probably stay home with him. Daniel's got this. Thing. I'm sorry.”

He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing at the floor. He knew, rationally, that missing one day with Miguel wasn't the same as letting him down and betraying his promise to always be there for him. He knew that. Did he know that? And more importantly, did Miguel?

Miguel, didn't pause for longer than a second. “It's okay, Sensei. I understand. Really, you don't have to apologize.” And to his credit, he sounded like he was probably telling the truth.

They talk for a few more minutes, and then Johnny finally took pity on the kid and let him off the line. He'd barely tapped _end call_ when, behind him:

“Why'd you do that?”

Johnny turned around and looked at his son. He was pale and his eyes were bloodshot, hair a mess. He frowned at Johnny and advanced into the room.

“We both know I'm not sick, you didn't have to do that.”

And Johnny had really had enough. He was letting down Miguel, getting nothing but criticism from first Daniel, now Robby—

“Alright, look – how about you don't tell me what I can or can't do?” he said, tossing the phone aside onto the sofa. “Let's try to remember the situation we have here: I'm the adult, and you're the reckless kid who kept us up all night worrying and was too hungover to go into school today.”

Robby flinched slightly. His mouth hardened. He nodded at the air, but somehow Johnny didn't think he was suddenly agreeing with his amazing judgment or anything. He waited for Robby to snap something back, but instead:

“So Miguel knows I'm out?” Voice carefully blank.

Surprised, Johnny could only nod.

Robby tipped his chin up, defiance masking fear. “And what does he think of that?”

Fuck. He felt like a blind mouse scurrying over an abandoned mine field. “We haven't – talked much about it. I try to keep him focused on.” He licked his lip and forced himself to continue. “On recovery.”

“Right.” After a second, Robby turned back to the stairs.

“Robby.”

But he stalled out when the boy actually paused and looked back. He didn't know what to say here. He wanted to tell him obtaining forgiveness was always good but never essential to moving forward. He wanted to tell him he hadn't ruined his life, or Miguel's.

But Robby was looking at him, hazel eyes wide and begging to be let alone. Or, begging for something, anyway. Maybe Johnny didn't know how to read him well enough to be sure.

He swung his fists slightly and looked down. “Could you please – stay inside tonight. At least until Daniel gets home? He'll want us all to... talk. Probably.”

“Should be a novel experience,” said his son, after a moment. He left the room quiet as he'd entered it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic, to my endless regret and chagrin, is probably going to be interrupted by New Years/S3 dropping.  
> Aside from the ongoing soccer au blitz, I also have this longass Rome fic I've been working on all year and *swore* I'd finish before January. So, we'll see.  
> Apologies!! Hope people still care about this trio after we find out what happens next season haha... (ha??)


	9. THREE

(Robby thinks: go ahead, Dad. Say something.)  
  


* * *

  
When it got to be past eight in the evening and Daniel still hadn't come home or texted (not a big deal if it was him, but with Daniel that seemed apocalyptic), Johnny made a frozen pizza. He stood at the bottom stair and called Robby's name until he came down to eat it.

“Real sneaky,” said Robby dully, when Johnny came back inside from taking the trash out. He was still sitting at the table, working on his stray crusts. “Did you make sure to bury the box deep?”

“No.” He tore it up and shoved the pieces into an empty Coors box. “I'm not trying to hide anything. He knew there was a frozen pizza in the freezer.”

“Which means he'll notice it's gone.”

Johnny hadn't thought of that. Whatever: on the priorities of the day, it barely registered. He cleared his throat. “How's your head.”

“Fine.”

“You know, you're lucky Pat recognized you. If you were picked up for public intoxication, or underage drinking—”

“I know,” said Robby, with an edge to his voice. He dropped his last crust. “I don't need the lecture.”

“I'm not lecturing you. I'm speaking from experience, probation officers can be real hardasses.”

Wasn't this what people were always telling him to do, commiserate and shit? Find common ground? Problem was, their common ground seemed to make Robby only shrink further into himself. His expression steadily darkened with every second Johnny was in the room and speaking. Every instinct Johnny had was telling him to let up, maybe let the kid escape back to his room. The evening before now had gone well enough when they were leaving each other alone.

But the Daniel in his head said, _loving a child and being practiced at caring for one are two different things_. So he stuck it out.

He got a beer and sat at the table across from his son, and they worked hard at not looking at each other. He tried not to look at the clock too many times either.

“So,” he said. “What did it?”

Robby rubbed at a spot on the table and tilted his head without looking up. “What did what?”

He had this way of speaking very evenly and deliberately, like he wanted you to know not only was he just fine, but that you could also get fucked. It was a strange combination, but he managed to nail it every time.

“Last couple nights. Doesn't seem like your usual style,” _not that Johnny would know_ ; he knew they were both thinking it but he pushed past, “So, what was it?”

“Does it matter? I'm not going to do it again. Thought I'd try it out, but it's not... actually that fun.” His eyes flicked up and rested on the beer sitting at Johnny's elbow. “Not really sure what you and Mom get out of it, to be honest.”

“Well, your mom doesn't anymore, so.” His head turned without permission, eyes going to the clock.

“If he doesn't come back, you shouldn't blame yourself,” said Robby, concealed-carry-conversational.

He felt his face wrinkle and told himself it was confusion. “What?”

“For some people, it just doesn't happen, right?” His throat flexed as he swallowed a little. “Doesn't stick.”

“What are you talking about, what doesn't stick?”

Something darted across Robby's eyes then, a slight crack in his tough guy James Dean routine. Funny thing about James Dean: everyone always forgot he cried in _Rebel_. Robby's lips flinched up in a too-quick smile and his fingertips were white as they kept rubbing that same invisible spot on the table.

“You name it,” he said.

Before Johnny could dig further, a faint grinding sound came through the wall: the garage door. Without his permission, his shoulders relaxed slightly.

Robby met his eyes with his mask once more intact. “Never mind. Guess he came back.”

Daniel came through the connecting door with a slight check to his step that suggested he wanted to limp but was refusing to let himself. He looked exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that makes even a nice suit look like it has three days' wear and tear.

 _Thump_ went his briefcase by the wall. _Jangle_ went his keys in the tray. He nearly rested his forehead against the wall as he toed his shoes off, and that's how Johnny knew he was truly fucked up. Man never took his shoes off without bending and untying them properly. Not even sneakers.

Johnny turned sideways in his chair and said, “Hey.”

Daniel glanced over, taking in the scene with a flicker of bruised eyes. “Hey, guys.” He came further into the room, and his need to limp was a little more pronounced in just his socks. He pulled at his tie. “You two get something to eat?” Question automatic; tone absent. If Johnny didn't know why he was so tired, he'd almost assume the man was drunk.

“Yeah,” said Johnny, looking up at him, “all good here.”

Daniel nodded. His hand reached halfway up to Johnny's shoulder in its customary greeting but froze halfway through the journey. Johnny watched it fall back to his side. He thought he could feel Robby watching it too.

“I know we have a lot to talk about,” said Daniel, still in that same odd, vague tone. “But honestly, I've had a hell of a day, and nothing we need to say can't wait until tomorrow. Right?”

Johnny glanced at Robby, who didn't look like anything at all at this turn of events.

Johnny said, “Yeah, looks like it's been a tough one – why don't you go take a shower or something, get some sleep.”

Daniel split a tight smile between them and disappeared down the hall to the bedroom. Johnny looked down at the table.

“He looks upset.”

“Well, he's,” this was uncomfortable, “he's an emotional man.”

Robby slid him a narrow look. “Worst thing in the world, right?”

He set his teeth. “That's not what I meant. I mean, I'm dating him, aren't I.”

“Do you know how many shitty boyfriends Mom has had? That doesn't mean anything.”

Johnny tapped the table with his thumb and scrutinized him. He said eventually, “Sorry, guess I can't leave that – am I the shitty boyfriend in this situation?”

Robby set his teeth and looked away. “That's not what I meant.”

“Talking is going to go so great,” said Johnny, patience finally unraveling. “Yeah. I can totally see why people do this.”

“What would you prefer, Dad? Just say nothing? Don't get me wrong, I'm with you on that right now. Not exactly looking forward to getting reamed by my substitute father whenever he recovers enough to feel obligated.”

And Jesus, there was so much wrong with that, starting with—

“He's not your substitute father.”

Robby tilted his head, cold curiosity glinting his eyes. “Are you offended on his behalf or yours?”

He was getting tangled up in the cords of this conversation; it felt like Robby had a dozen emotions and they were all powering different arguments. Any second now, Johnny was going to trip and say something stupid, he just knew it.

He put a hand up. “How about we just – stay quiet, for now. And we'll both try to assume the other doesn't mean to be a dick?” There. That sounded like something, didn't it?

Robby's expression was once again impossible to read, no matter how he squinted at it. Right.

“I'm going to go check on him,” said Johnny, standing. “See how that foot's doing.” He paused and looked one final time at the clock in the kitchen. It was almost ten. “Look just – go to sleep. You have school. We'll talk tomorrow, like he said.”

Robby didn't wait to be told twice.  
  


* * *

  
Daniel stood for an unknown amount of time in the shower, soaping his body robotically and letting his hair form a dam over his forehead so the water dripped down in one strong flow.

He had his foot in a plastic bag and had to be careful not to move around too much. Slipping and breaking something else and having to be carried naked out of his own bathroom was an added humiliation he did not need right now.

When he thought it had been long enough, he turned the shower off and maneuvered out of the tub and into a towel, and went back to the bedroom.

Johnny was sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed. He didn't have his head in his hands, he wasn't drunk, he wasn't – anything. He was just waiting.

Daniel wished, with an exhausted sort of bitterness, that he had some clothes on right now.

But Johnny only said, quiet, “How's the foot.” He was looking at the stupid plastic bag, which he'd neglected to take off in the bathroom.

He bent and tore it free. “It's fine. Went to urgent care, they said I fractured my big toe. They just taped it up and told me to stay off it.” He crossed to the toilet and tossed the bag in the trash and then went to grab his pajamas. Changing in the bathroom felt childish, so he didn't do it, but he went directly to brush his teeth after.

Silence from the other room the whole time. He stared down at the sink as he brushed.

He knew this feeling and he hated it. Ever since he was a kid, he's been like this – he fucks something up and knows he's fucked it up, and it somehow only makes him act worse. Buy the ticket, take the ride; Thompson was probably talking about drugs, but he could just as easily have been describing Daniel's temper.

He wanted to skip this part. He wanted it to be over, for everything to go back to how it had been a couple days ago.

Johnny was in bed when he came back into the room; on his front, facing away. He wasn't sleeping, though surely he was as tired as Daniel. He didn't move when Daniel climbed into bed, and he didn't say anything.

Daniel lay on his back, feeling heavy like the mattress should be sinking into the floor from the weight of him.

He blinked up at the ceiling and said, “I'm sorry.”

At this point he barely remembered what he was apologizing for, but it still felt inadequate.

Johnny didn't move for a long moment, until Daniel started to think maybe he actually had fallen asleep – but then the sheets whispered as he slid a hand over and blindly fumbled for Daniel's. Once he found it, he clasped it too hard, and he still didn't speak or turn around.

But it was something.


	10. TWO

(Robby thinks: the big, unspoken secret here is that everyone has already made up their minds, even if they don't want to admit it. Maybe Dad is right and words don't actually mean anything. They're just something we use to build the story of our life, not realizing even the lie is critically flawed – a tale told by an idiot, went the book I read in juvie: full of sound and fury and signifying nothing. But somehow here we are, continuing on. And on. And on. The fist is just as dishonest, but fuck, at least it's quick.)  
  


* * *

  
The next afternoon felt like something out of a western. Three men stood poised on the edge of a communal space: flinty eyes, expressions alert. Hands capable of doing real damage hanging at their sides. Redemption or massacre were the options before them, but there was no guarantee which they would choose. Peace was harder than it sounded.

“Let's sit at the table,” suggested Daniel. “Do either of you want anything to eat?”

Or maybe it was two men facing off, while an innocent townsperson looked on. Daniel could be a showgirl in the saloon. But like one of those saucy types who kept a derringer beneath her skirt.

“Johnny?”

He blinked. Daniel and Robby were at the table, watching him. He hastily dragged his chair out and sat down.

Daniel nodded slightly and folded his hands over the top of the table. He glanced between them and said, “How was school?”

Robby didn't look like he wanted to indulge the question, but eventually he said, “Fine. I have to give a persuasive speech at the end of the week in Communications.”

“That sounds interesting,” said Daniel, and Johnny almost rolled his eyes because: did it? Did it, really? He couldn't tell if he was irritated by the pretense of interest or the possibility it wasn't fake. He knew Daniel had some natural capacity for all this that he lacked, but there had to be limits, surely. “What are you trying to persuade people to do?”

“I was thinking I might try to convince my classmates to take up karate,” said Robby, eyes lifting.

Neither of them said anything.

Robby shrugged. “Thought that might be funny.”

“Does acting shitty make you feel better?” asked Johnny. And when Daniel hissed out a breath, he said, “No, I'm serious, Daniel. It's an honest question.” He looked at Robby. “Well?”

Robby's jaw went tight and his eyes dropped away. He didn't respond.

It never made him feel better, he wanted to add. Not in the long run, anyway. But he couldn't quite work out if saying this would level the playing field between them or just make him sound like a hypocrite. So, like always, he left it alone.

“Okay,” said Daniel carefully, flattening his hands on the table. “How about we start somewhere more – practical. Robby, you understand why we're upset that you spent two nights out like that?”

“Yes.”

“And you understand, we're just worried about you?”

“Worried about me or worried about what I'll do?” he asked.

“What do you want to do?” And Johnny could tell Daniel was aiming for neutral, maybe even understanding, but the words came out too cautious to sound anything but wary. He almost winced.

Robby bit out, “ _Nothing_.” His shoulders had tightened up again.

“Okay,” said Daniel again.

“Jesus,” said Johnny to the other man. “The amount of grief you gave me, I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

“I never claimed to be good at anything, but at least I'm trying.” _Unlike you,_ the edge in his tone said.

“Trying,” said Robby deliberately, “or trying to look like it?”

The three gunmen – two gunmen and a dirty-fighting showgirl, _whatever_ – sat back in their chairs for a moment, taking in the new shuffle of alliances. Johnny was starting to think they should back off; make Robby promise not to do it again and leave well enough alone.

Before he could voice this brilliant idea of his, the front door slammed open against the wall and Sam walked in.

She blinked upon seeing the three of them sitting at the table, but recovered quickly. Enough to demand, “Seriously, Robby?”

His face was wiped clean with surprise. The abrupt vacating of all hostility left him looking very young, and unsettlingly like his mother. He shot up from the table, eyes widening, saying, “Sam—”

“You don't get to do that.”

“Wait, hold on, what. What's going on,” started Daniel, half out of his seat and hands coming up between the two teenagers. “Sam?”

She ignored her father, speaking past him. “I must have sent you a hundred emails this past year, and you didn't respond. Not to a single one. Then you're out, what, a week? And you send this _bullshit_?”

Between _this bullshit_ , the way she stabbed the air with her phone in hand, and his long familiarity with that specific tone of female outrage, Johnny thought he knew what had happened. He looked up at his son.

“Did you message your ex while drunk? Jesus, even I know that's a bad idea. I mean, I've done it. A lot. But I know it's a bad idea.”

Robby looked down at the floor, while Daniel turned and stared at him; his placating arms went limp in the air like Johnny's stupidity was so heavy, they simply couldn't hold it up any longer.

Daniel didn't give up. He looked between his daughter and Robby and said, “Look, why don't we all get out of here? Go someplace, get some air and sort this out. We can go down to the dojo—”

“I'm not going back there,” said Robby flatly to the floor. “Not ever.”

And Johnny had to look away from Daniel's face then. Had Daniel broadcast his emotions like this when they were kids? Had Johnny been blind or just an asshole.

“That's fine,” said Daniel after a moment. “You're an adult now, Robby. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.”

Johnny added, “Except school. You have to go to school. And stop drinking. And not get into any more fights.” He felt the full weight of the table's judgment on that one and decided abruptly this obviously wasn't working. Running on a sudden stab of intuition he knew better than to ignore, he said:

“Why don't I take Sam to the dojo?”

“What,” said Sam. And when he met her eyes and tried to communicate that this was an escape hatch, she said, “Oh – but I mean. I can drive myself. We don't have to—”

“Great,” he said, standing. “We'll take your car. I haven't got a lot of sleep lately, probably not a good idea for me to drive right now anyway.”

Sam's expression remained frozen, but she was a smart kid; she took one last look at her father and Robby and made for the door without another word.

Daniel let Johnny pass, looking nothing but resigned; Robby huffed a slight incredulous laugh down at the table, which should've made Johnny hesitate between steps. But he didn't know what else to do. Robby didn't look up as they left.  
  


* * *

  
“I'm curious,” said Robby after the door closed behind the pair, “is there a single person on this planet my dad would _not_ rather talk to than me?”

“That's not true,” said Daniel, but he knew it came out lacking conviction.

He sat there and thought about how Sam didn't look at him even once, and wondered what the hell he was thinking, sitting here and pretending to be the better father.


End file.
